


Mercy

by 13thDoctor



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Canon Related, Canon Rewrite, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Season/Series 05, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-08 04:53:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13450959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor
Summary: Halfdan does not know how it started, though he is certain that it has. It is not so simple a point as before and after, but a recognition of difference nonetheless, an acknowledgment that what he feels now is other than what he felt not too long ago.





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> They're in love, the finale was trash, and I'm in denial. Also, a disclaimer: Any lines from the actual script belong solely to the Vikings creative team.

_“My bounty is as boundless as the sea,_  
_My love as deep; the more I give to thee,_  
_The more I have, for both are infinite.”_  
_―William Shakespeare_

 

Halfdan does not know how it started, though he is certain that it has. It is not so simple a point as before and after, but a recognition of difference nonetheless, an acknowledgment that what he feels now is other than what he felt not too long ago. The moments and memories blur while the ache in his chest only grows until he is sick of it.

That, he considers, is a lie.

He had lied to himself much in his youth. When he recalls it now, it brings him shame to see the cowardly child of his past. Halfdan is a man now, and he will not lie to himself any longer, and he will scream at the scared little boy in his dreams.

A quick knife or the threat of one is enough to keep hidden lovers silent and himself safe. He only regrets that he cannot trust his beloved brother with his secret. _Surely he will understand, and will still love you_ , he reasons, but the risk is too great. It is his only cowardice.

Wondering if one day he will guess it, Halfdan tells Harald, “There is a reason I am not married,” and they laugh. Of course Halfdan does not understand women. He knows their tricks--because they are, at their core, Viking--yet not their bodies; those are as foreign to him as the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. Perhaps more so, since he as at least caressed that sand.

Bjorn Ironside had brought them there, and would do it again. The Gods favor that man. Halfdan thinks they love him _almost_ as much as he does, and that is only because they have not been touched by him. He thinks of Bjorn’s hands, so strong as they clap his back or as they strike down an enemy, and he shivers. Rolling to his side on his bed, he imagines his own hands are Bjorn’s. The fantasy is beautiful until it ends, leaving him cold and lonely and wanting beneath his blankets. To be able to turn around and wrap Bjorn in his arms is too stupid a future to consider. So he allows himself to be stupid while he slumbers.

In the morning, Harald finds him while he sits by the early cooking fires. They embrace, then eat in companionable silence. Once Bjorn emerges, bright eyed, no weariness showing in his confident steps, Halfdan’s entire body becomes aware of him. His heart beats with excitement as if he is about to enter battle. His face heats as if he is sitting much closer to the fire than he is. Embarrassed, he attacks his bread with relish, not offering much to the men’s conversation. It is mostly about sex, anyway, so he cannot say much without revealing himself. When he tells these stories he simply tends to repeat Harald’s; this is difficult with Harald seated beside him.

“And Halfdan? How did you celebrate our victory?” Bjorn wraps his arm around Halfdan’s shoulders and pulls him off balance, chuckling.

“Alone!” Harald teases, or so he thinks. “Like an old man, falling asleep so soon.” They all roar; Halfdan acts appropriately mocked. He averts his eyes so that his brother cannot see he has saved him.

They fight the Saxons. Halfdan forgets his sorrows in the moments he kills, vanquishing each miserable thought with the slice of his blade. Blood coats his clothes and face in drops that fall as fast as rain during a storm. He laughs to see them die squealing, these Christian pigs. With Bjorn by his side, weilding an axe and a grin, the victory is so much sweeter.

Later that day, when the Vikings have defeated the Saxons and prepared a great feast in honor of the sons of Ragnar, Halfdan sits, gladly listening to Bjorn’s rousing speech. As he does this, he tries to memorize Bjorn’s face. He is pleased by the new scars, but also terrified that he will one day forget them, or not see the scars to come. If Halfdan remains here, he will lose Bjorn to the sea.

Harald is a steady presence beside him. The brothers have plans to return to Kattegat and further Harald’s dream to be Harald Finehair - King of all Norway! Looking at Bjorn, Halfdan cannot help but wonder if the treasures he seeks lie on the other side of the world--to be unburied by Ironside, undoubtedly-rather than in the ravished soil of that trading center.

Ragnar’s sons bicker, as they always do. Halfdan pays little attention to their childish squabbles except to watch how Bjorn reacts. These little boys are boring pests. They will never achieve their oldest brother’s greatness. And that is Bjorn’s greatest fault, wishing them to that glory, when Sigurd and Hvisterk are too weak, Ubbe too complacent, and Ivar too recklessly bloodthirsty.

Ivar asks who will stay and farm. Harald stands to offer apologies, a little too drunk to keep the self-satisfaction from his voice as he thinks forward to stealing Lagertha’s throne. Bjorn emanates a mixture of disappointment and indifference at the answer. As he looks to Halfdan, who rises to speak, Halfdan’s breath catches.

“As for me,” he says with a pause after, “I want to go with Bjorn.” Harald bristles, and Halfdan steels himself to continue. “I want to see the Mediterranean.” He will follow his heart even if it kills him.

The man who possesses that heart leaps over his table. Halfdan keeps his body and eyes turned away from Harald’s, anticipating with each of Bjorn’s steps what will follow. Bjorn wraps his arms tightly around Halfdan, thanking him, but Halfdan only wants him closer. He inhales, rejects the need to draw him close like a lover would, slaps his back. He keeps one arm on Bjorn for as long as he is able and only glances toward his brother when Bjorn has looked back to his own siblings. Harald’s shock rolls off of him in waves. Silently he pleads for an explanation that Halfdan cannot give.

Halfdan and Bjorn part to hear more of the Lothbrok sons’ harsh words. When Ivar accuses Sigurd of offering his ass to other men, the gathered crowd is expectantly amused. Halfdan chokes down his rage. What makes other Vikings laugh about this has always been a mystery to him. He will also never again allow himself to pity or ridicule something about himself that he cherishes.

Ivar and Sigurd are humiliating themselves. To show such weakness in their relationship is to show the other Vikings that nothing they have built will last. Halfdan gapes as Ivar’s axe buries itself in Sigurd’s chest, the already pale boy draining of all color. Next to him Harald throws his hands open, enjoying the discord. Everyone stands. The air is thick with apprehension, and Bjorn is taut as a bowstring with that same unease. Halfdan is torn; it gladdens him to know this death favors Harald’s ascension, but Bjorn, for all of the distrust he harbors for his father’s other sons, loves them, and this will trouble him.

A day later, the great army holds a magnificent ceremony befitting Sigurd son of Ragnar, sending him to Valhalla with war spoils as well as relics from his home. Once the arrows have flown, Bjorn finds his peace. He has preparations to make for their journey and thus little time to waste on sentiment.

Ice has frozen between Halfdan and Harald. He feels it when they speak to Bjorn; Harald’s seemingly kind offer to travel to Kattegat with news reverberates with warning horns only Halfdan can hear. They do not fight. They love one another too much to resort to petty words and blows, although Halfdan knows this silence will ruin them in some way. Their sadness is a slow knife, and in time the pain will only worsen. Halfdan knows Harald feels betrayed, and there is nothing Halfdan can say that will explain it since it is not a woman nor certain riches Halfdan chases. So he drinks his way through their meeting and says nothing to anyone.

Preparing the boats for the Mediterranean lifts a burden from Halfdan’s shoulders that he has carried far too long. Bjorn does his best to appear the stoic leader, the careful planner, and it is convincing to the others. Halfdan can see the excitement, however, because he shares it. A smile when the boat is further packed, fingers twitching toward a gold ring stolen from the first marketplace raid; Bjorn catches Halfdan catching this and winks to say, _This is our shared secret now._

If only Bjorn knew what secrets Halfdan wants to share with him.

“You are sure?” Harald asks when the seafarers are almost ready to depart.

Halfdan has delayed in bringing his sword aboard so that he may have this farewell. Many years of living in Harald’s shadow and following his dreams cause the truth to spill out now. Not the whole truth, of course, but his aspirations of travel and discovery, which are damning enough when falling upon the ears of a man who has only ever wanted power.

Tears threaten and Harald’s lips quiver when he laments, “I will miss you.”

This will be the longest they have ever been apart. Halfdan’s heart breaks at the thought, but it will mend. He promises to protect Harald from wherever he is, hand on his brother’s neck, hoping he understands that he _must_ leave. It is like cutting a piece of himself away when he lets go. Perhaps it will be the most difficult thing he has ever done. Perhaps he will regret it, one day.

But that, he considers when he shoulders his shield and looks at Bjorn, is a lie.

"Go to your new boyfriend! Be happy together!"

Halfdan turns back to his brother, his lungs seizing as a cold panic washes through him. He wants to yell, _Don't be so sick, brother_ , or even ask, _How long have you known_? Instead he does not speak.

Harold does not either, but his sad eyes answer, _I am not_ and _forever_.

Bjorn touches his shoulder. Even through his tunic, his skin catches fire, and burns a phantom handprint into his flesh when Bjorn’s hand is--too soon--gone. “The tide is turning. We have to leave.” His gaze searches his for any lingering doubts, and, finding none, he pushes Halfdan toward their ship.

Bjorn and Halfdan place their belongings side-by-side. Halfdan envies the way their packs can touch and overlap when he must stay his greedy hands. _But this is life,_ he thinks, and clasps Bjorn’s forearm when it is offered to him.

“To the Mediterranean,” he whispers, for Halfdan alone. Then, louder, he repeats this for the whole crew.

The cheers that come split Bjorn’s face into a wide, infectious grin. It gives Halfdan the strength to not look back as they set sail. The winds are true, the water smooth. Halfdan closes his eyes and thanks Odin for helping him find the place he truly belongs.

Bjorn hardly consults his precious map on their second journey. The gods guide him, or his passion does, or both. Thor beats his hammer across the sky some nights. Wind howls and rain falls, yet every thunder strike is a blessing, not an omen. Halfdan feels truly alive during these storms. They are different, a test, although they are infrequent, and hardly the worst storms he has survived. He is glad to endure these tempests with Bjorn weathering them steadfast at his side.

On the coldest nights, Halfdan is tortured by thoughts of who could warm him. They sleep next to one another, furs piled beneath and atop them both, but careful not to seem as though they are sharing a bed. Many of the men and women aboard huddle together against the chill. For Bjorn and Halfdan, this would be incriminating. Therefore, like the storms, Halfdan endures.

They float in the Gulf of Cadiz before they make their way to the major markets. Fires burn bright in the pits, casting shadows across every face. A man sings from the corner, and other join in from across the boats until they are a chorus and the water’s lull is their instrumentation. The Gulf is dark, filled with smoke and fog. Halfdan does not mind; he is not trying to see beyond anything but what is beside him.

Like most nights, Bjorn and Halfdan have ended up next to each other, drinking and trading stories from the past as well as hopes for a successful raid. Bjorn finishes a recounting of his last day in the mountains, and then they lapse into amicable quiet. Bjorn breaks this by asking, “Why did you really decide to come with me?”

Halfdan cannot look at him at first. His eyes remain fixed on the fire, lest they betray him. He answers with honesty, allowing Bjorn to understand him, to see him, but not wholly. Maybe in the future there will be a time for that. His hope for that future, of course, gets the better of him as he continues to lay his soul bare. “I just want to live,” he answers fervently. His eyes flick to Bjorn’s as he amends, “ _I want to live with the greatest intensity._ ” The admission is there, the lust unguarded, unless the reflected flames obscure it or explain it away for now. Halfdan ends with a soft plea for understanding.

There is something hungry in the way Bjorn replies, “Oh, I do.”

Halfdan turns, catching the beginnings of one of those smiles that looks to Halfdan how sunlight feels. But they are swiftly interrupted by Sinric, and Bjorn’s lips curl in annoyance. Halfdan drinks to conceal his own dismay, then curses at himself for being so naive. Bjorn wants adventure. Halfdan is attaching more meaning to his words than he should, and he should not let himself be so easily carried away. Fate will carry him in life and he would be foolish to fight it.

Bjorn concedes to abandon the fleet. Left with three boats, they make for shore in clothes procured from their last raid. Halfdan wishes to tear those clothes off of Bjorn, but he keeps those thoughts to himself while they ride across the desert.

The miles and miles of sand take his breath away, much like the way Bjorn did the night he first laid eyes on him. But whereas Kattegat’s hall was a cacophony of sights and sounds, the nothingness of this place is what makes it so astonishing. The desert is as vast and infinite as the sea. Halfdan thinks, _I could drown here._ He is not ready to die yet, though. He stares at the slope of Bjorn’s shoulders and knows he will need much more from this world before he is prepared for the next.

The city amazes him. Its people are so dark but its walls are so light. Every color is more vibrant than he thought possible. Sun beats down on the golden sand, which is hot enough to burn through Halfdan’s boots. He does not mind; he intends to live life to its fullest, all its injuries included. And yet he is wary, and this wariness proves useful as the named Commander draws his blade on Bjorn. It is a laughable attempt, really, so it does not produce any fear in Halfdan even when a sword rests ominously against his throat. If he is being honest, the violence excites him.

They enlist as bodyguards for Euphemius under Sinric’s guidance. Halfdan does not fully trust this wanderer--in all fairness, he does not fully trust most people--despite Bjorn considering him so useful to this enterprise. However, Halfdan agrees with Sinric that they should take the job.

After the necessary words have been translated, Euphemius goes to Bjorn, who stands respectfully. Halfdan is not sure what he expected to happen, but it is certainly not the kiss he sees. His blood boils even as his heart longs for that same touch. Bjorn seems confused but not overly offended. _This,_ Halfdan concludes, _is a good sign._

Commander Euphemius gives the Vikings a few adjoining rooms in which to sleep. Many of them choose to explore the city--and the women--instead. Two watchmen are posted at the entrances. Bjorn and Halfdan sleep on mats cushioned by colorful pillows, facing each other, discussing their prospects and that suspicious woman, Kassia. Halfdan drifts off to the sound of Bjorn’s voice.

Bjorn kicks him awake, chuckling, when daylight starts to stream through the windows. He says they have to meet Sinric, so they dress and walk about as they wait. Halfdan finds a soft patch of stone to carve into. The indelible rune is a symbol that he lives, that his people live. Bjorn watches until Sinric comes, and then he has a new mission: to meet the famous Arab leader, Ziyadat Allah. Halfdan is happy to follow him there. He is happy enough, and aching fiercely for Bjorn, that once they have met this great ruler and are lounging about, smoking from a sweet-tasting pipe, Halfdan knows his eyes must betray his lust. He inhales thick smoke and imagines what it would feel like to kiss Bjorn with it in his mouth. Taking the pipe, Bjorn does not notice this unguarded desire, or at least does not acknowledge it.

Sinric arrives bearing gifts from Ziyadat. The Emir has apparently personally selected these women, as Sinric gestures one to each of the men. A muscle in Halfdan’s jaw jumps. He taps the pillows beside him uncomfortably, unsure how to proceed, unwilling to take this girl to bed. Of course, Bjorn’s merriment is boundless, and he is on his feet and approaching his whore before Halfdan can even consider standing. Bjorn kicks at Halfdan affectionately as he goes, encouraging.

Halfdan rolls his eyes and leads his woman away before Bjorn can grow suspicious. This is not the first time he has been expected by other men to take a prize or gift. Haldan will feign weariness, or express his concern that she is unable to act of her own free will. In his experience, the latter is what always convinces them to stop. He has held many a weeping woman through the night. Although not ideal, he prefers it to the alternative.

Then again, he has promised himself to live life to its fullest potential. If the gods will him this experience, he will try for them. His touch is nonetheless hesitant and crude like a virgin’s. She seems amused as he slides his hands beneath her dress. It occurs him then that the Emir must know his secret. All of these people are so perceptive and surreptitious. Halfdan raises his brows and receives a smile in return. For now, he is too pleased to be wary of Ziyadat Allah’s insight. And the experience is indeed intense.

Too long out of practice, he finishes before Bjorn. Still warm, Halfdan redresses in only the long shirt he has worn for days now. The servants set him in the same tent in which he began his night; this time the table is brimming with rich food and drink. Halfdan finishes two glasses of wine and is considering a third when Bjorn finally arrives.

He is mostly naked. Halfdan is delighted. He asks, “How was your evening?”

As Bjorn answers, pleased beyond measure, Halfdan gulps down a wave of jealousy with fine wine. Bjorn stretches--although to Halfdan’s disappointment his shirt reveals nothing when he does so--and sits. “And yours?”

Halfdan inhales. It is time, he thinks, so he says, as neutrally as possible, “She was... not a she.”

“What?”

Feeling bold, Halfdan does not allow Bjorn to give him this escape. He snaps, “You heard.” There is a significant pause in which Halfdan is want to flinch. He does not. He waits, and stares resolutely.

“And, uh.” Bjorn swallows, clearly discomforted. “Was that a problem for you?” His eyebrows raise in curiosity, but he has not recoiled or reacted violently.

Halfdan feels lucky so far. Not wanting to push that luck, he weighs his two possible answers and elects for something more ambiguous. “I’m starving!’ he exclaims, because his whole body is filled with doubt now. His heart pounds like a horse’s hooves in his throat. He reaches for some strange fruit while Bjorn tilts his head, eyes distant as if he is trying to picture the mechanics of Halfdan’s encounter.

Once he feels Bjorn scrutinizing him, Halfdan jumps up, worrying that he has ruined his friendship with Bjorn, worrying that this will change them. But Bjorn does not offer escape this time. He groans, catches Halfdan’s arm. Halfdan freezes, weighed down by his dread. The question swims in his mind: _Was that a problem for you?_ And the answer is no, never. Halfdan breathes evenly. “It…”

“No. Do not tell me.”

Halfdan chuckles humorlessly. “Oh, do I sicken you?”

Bjorn tugs, hard, so that Halfdan stumbles into Bjorn’s lap, his back to Bjorn’s chest. One of Bjorn’s hands grips his forearm and the other wraps around his throat. Halfdan does not struggle. His skin is hot, and he can hardly breathe, though that is the fault of his own lungs. Where Bjorn touches him the pressure is firm yet gentle.

Turning his face into Halfdan’s neck, Halfdan’s hair trailing over his nose and lips, Bjorn murmurs, “I do not want you to tell me. I… want you to show me.”

Halfdan is surprised when his first instinct is to be concerned. For all of his fantasies, he could never have imagined this one perfect moment. All the same, he is asking, “You are sure?” before he can stop himself, sounding both anxious and teasing.

The hand that holds Halfdan’s forearm slides down. Bjorn curls their fingers together. He bites Halfdan’s neck quickly, and Halfdan feels the smile that follows. “Why do you ask stupid questions? Hmm?” After he licks over his teeth marks, he continues, “If I was not sure I would not have said it.”

Twisting his neck, Halfdan lets his smirk drag across Bjorn’s cheek. He turns so they face each other, running his hands over Bjorn’s shoulders and arms, mapping with touch the way he has only before been allowed to by sight.

Halfdan is kneeling before Bjorn. Bjorn’s breath hitches when Halfdan pushes his legs wide and trails his fingers along the inside of his thigh. Halfdan rubs the hem of Bjorn’s shirt between his fingers as he watches Bjorn’s chest rise and fall, perhaps a bit too fast, pleasure tainted by nerves.

Halfdan remembers his first time and smiles. “Are you afraid?”

Bjorn scoffs. “I am not.”

Halfdan smiles again at his defiance. He slips his hand beneath Bjorn’s shirt, keeping their eyes locked while his hand moves between Bjorn’s legs. Bjorn’s hips raise to meet his touch. Halfdan cannot believe he thought the desert sun hot when he feels the heat that stirs within himself now. He shifts closer, unable to abide the space between their bodies any longer. Bjorn is still, transfixed.

Catching Bjorn’s chin with his free hand, Halfdan says, “Do not look away, Bjorn Ironside.”

Bjorn shakes his head before he remembers himself. He finally surges forward to cup Halfdan’s face in his hands. “How long have you wanted me?” he asks.

“A long time,” Halfdan admits after a moment. There is no point in lying. He tilts his head and grins. “You must know that now.” Halfdan’s hand drags, slow, rough.

“I--ah. Suspected.” Bjorn draws his hands away and they fall at his sides. He is flushed, eyes half-lidded, chest stuttering out shallow breaths. He groans. “Halfdan.”

“Lie back.” Bjorn obeys because he trusts Halfdan, but his face betrays his trepidation. Halfdan soothes, “I will not make you less of a man.” He leans over Bjorn to press their foreheads together. “I will ask you once more if you are sure.”

Bjorn growls from deep within his chest; Halfdan feels it in his own body and shivers. That is all the answer he needs to crawl further up Bjorn’s body, straddling him. He grinds their hips together. Grabbing Bjorn’s wrist, he slides their hands together over his own waist, showing Bjorn how to hold him.

“I will hurt you,” Bjorn protests as Halfdan rises and braces one hand on Bjorn’s abdomen.

Halfdan chuckles. “Do not make promises you cannot keep.”

Bjorn’s wild eyes must mirror his own as he guides him inside of him, so slowly that it burns and Halfdan grits his teeth. Blunt fingernails dig into his back where Bjorn has found purchase. Halfdan is the first to move. His muscles shake, exhausted from this night. But nothing could keep him from this. He tips his head back and Bjorn’s shaking arms stretch to clutch uselessly at Halfdan’s shirt. Halfdan rips it off so he is completely bare to Bjorn.

Bjorn raises his hand toward Halfdan’s body again. Halfdan arches forward and takes that hand, licking Bjorn’s palm. Only when Bjorn nods to urge him on does he take one finger in his mouth, then lead Bjorn’s hand between his own legs.

“Like you would touch yourself,” Halfdan whispers.

His eyes are so wide. “Like this?”

Halfdan moans. “Yes, like that.”

It is over too soon. Halfdan pulls away from Bjorn and aches from the emptiness of it immediately. He shifts onto his back, lungs laboring as if he has just done battle. Though he is in pain, it simmers somewhere behind the happiness filling his heart when he turns to look at Bjorn. However, his smile falters as he notes Bjorn’s frown.

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Halfdan rolls onto his knees quickly and looms over Bjorn, scowling. “ _Never_ lie to me,” he barks.

“Can’t I be confused?” Bjorn says, indignant and equally angry. “You are… This is--gah!” He throws his hands up and then scrubs them over his face. Instantly he is reminded where those hands have been and yanks them back to stare. Even Halfdan, who has learned how every emotion colors itself in Bjorn Ironside’s eyes, cannot tell what he is thinking as he studies his hands.

“I don’t have any answers.”

Gently, Bjorn replies, “Then I will live without them for now.” He opens his arm. A corner of his mouth quirks up. “Come here.”

As he falls asleep wrapped in Bjorn’s embrace, Halfdan cannot help but think there must be some truth to all his stupid fantasies.

He wakes early, cleans himself, and dresses in another section of the tent, thankful no one found them in the night. A few minutes pass and then he hears shouting. Though faint, it grows louder and more urgent with each passing second. Halfdan finds a shortsword and treads through their shelter, trying to locate the source by sound inside before he must join the fray outside.

“Halfdan!” Bjorn calls from the other room.

Halfdan runs to him. He is alert, ready to fight.

“I know. I can hear.” He takes some time to appreciate Bjorn’s body in the small patches of sunlight sneaking through. His bliss is interrupted by desperate yelling. Jerking his head toward the noise, Halfdan tells Bjorn, “You’d better get dressed.”

His eyes gradually adjust to the brightness that greets them. Once they do, Halfdan sees three men in turbans and tunics, kneeling, pleading in a language he recognizes but cannot understand. He leaves Bjorn and finds Sinric to translate. What he hears concerns him less than he thinks it should. Last night lingers so blissfully in his mind that he can find little in himself that is not apathy for Commander Euphemius.

The captives’ shouts rise in pitch and urgency until their heads are separated cleanly from their necks. Sinric flinches, averts his eyes. Halfdan longs to carry one of those swords. Blood stains sand like it does skin, stark ad scarlet against a smooth surface. He admires the gore until Kassia’s disapproving gaze forces a hasty retreat.

Halfdan walks to Bjorn and throws his arm across his shoulder, molding the left side of his body against Bjorn’s. Every part of him braces to be pushed back; though this is no different from their intimacy _before,_ it feels more brazen now. Instead of drawing away, however, Bjorn brushes his cheek once, quickly, across his elbow, and smiles. Halfdan’s heart sinks to have to mention their obvious failure. Bjorn’s face sobers as he agrees.

Left alone in the tent once more, they ease each other’s tension in the afternoon. Halfdan cannot imagine a life where he has not learned every part of Bjorn. The satisfaction he once felt for his life in Norway seems naive now. He confides this to Bjorn, who kisses his forehead and exhales.

“I do not know what makes me happy anymore. My children.” He absentmindedly trails a finger down Halfdan’s side. “You.”

The word settles in Halfdan like good mead. He sits up, pulling his knees to his chest. “Women,” he adds to Bjorn’s list, because they must face this eventually.

Bjorn smiles, somehow still surprised by how well Halfdan knows him. “Yes, women, and this… this is what confuses me.”

Halfdan touches Bjorn’s face. “I spent too long questioning why I am different, and the way the gods created me. I have learned not to.”

They find water basins to clean themselves. At nightfall, Sinric extends Ziyadat’s invitation to a feast. If Sinric is suspicious of the time they have spent together, he does not say so as he leads them to a tent that wafts pleasant aromas from within. There, Sinric sits between Halfdan and Bjorn. Halfdan thinks his face is unreadable until Bjorn laughs at him and contorts his features into an exaggerated pout. Halfdan looks around to see if there is anything to throw at him. Before he can, Sinric asks them both to settle down, and they listen to the Emir briefly before eating.

Near the end of dinner, when Halfdan is itching to wrap himself in Bjorn under the stars, Ziyadat Allah’s uproarious laughter splits the air. Halfdan narrows his eyes at Kassia’s complacent face while Bjorn asks Sinric to explain such sudden exuberance.

Sinric looks troubled. He spits, picks at his teeth, and informs them that they have eaten Commander Euphemius. Halfdan chuckles, glances at the delicious meat, and shrugs, amused and impressed by this revelation. It is a fitting punishment for an enemy. He considers the Saxons and how easily interchangeable they are with livestock; perhaps Kassia’s people are more advanced than them _and_ the Vikings, since they have mastered a deceiving, morbid warfare that exists in the mind as well as on the ground. Harald will love this.

Understandably, Bjorn is conflicted, perturbed by all of the lies and trickery practiced in this land. Bjorn is not a strategist, he is a warrior. A feast should be a celebration. He expresses this distaste by flicking an unchewed piece of flesh back onto his place. Ziyadat reacts immediately and aggressively.

They are in grave danger, and Sinric suggests they return to the boats. Halfdan is not ready to depart this place, but he is also no fool. He and Bjorn do not have sex that night. They lie close together, conspiring, with knives under their pillows, prepared to encounter assassins. Before dawn Halfdan awakes from a dream he cannot recall and opens his eyes to find Bjorn staring at him.

Halfdan does not hesitate to kiss him then, tasting spice and sand and sleep on his tongue. “If we die tomorrow,” he explains when their mouths separate

Bjorn grabs the back of Halfdan’s neck to bring him forward for another kiss. “I need many more of these,” he muses, “so try not to die tomorrow. Unless I may have you in Valhalla.”

Halfdan waits until Bjorn is snoring again to answer, “You may have me always.”

Bjorn is gone when Halfdan wakes. He goes outside, peering through the harsh light at the various warriors around the encampment. Fear and doubt slam in his heart; they are outnumbered here. He finds Bjorn at the well, splashing water over his face and fashioning a weapon.

“What are we gonna do?”

He replies with a helpless shrug. Turning, they see Kassia and Ziyadat Allah stride out. The Emir’s hand rests ominously on his sword. Bjorn leans back as if he is coolly awaiting the verdict on his life, but Halfdan knows he has taken the wooden stake in a last attempt to even their odds.

Sinric, Bjorn, and Halfdan are pushed to their knees in the sand. Halfdan prays to be spared on this day. He assumes the gods have decided against him when Kassia gives her command, but berates himself for that doubt when the storm hits and Bjorn strikes. Their escape is a narrow, dastardly one; they steal the mounts they were given to ride here and must navigate through biting sand that travels on the wind faster than they can travel on earth.

Though the rest of the crew wants to hear their fabulous tale, they must wait. Everyone packs the ships--filled with silks, spices, weapons, foods, clothes, anything new--and they sail away having left only curiosity. Bjorn touches Halfdan’s hand lightly as the empire vanishes beyond the horizon. “We will come back,” he promises fiercely.

“You are a dreamer.” He squints out the the sea, imagining he can see Kattegat already. The idea of returning makes him ache. Bjorn cannot belong to him there.

Bjorn leans over, knocks their shoulders. “So are you.”

This makes him chuckle. He raps his knuckles against the ship, tempted to take Bjorn’s face in his hands and kiss him until their smiles meld together. Similar frustration settles in him for the remainder of their journey. Halfdan is a patient man, but every night resentment grows for the emptiness between them. Often Bjorn crosses that distance with an outstretched hand or foot, only to pull back at the slightest sound. The warmth between them does not fade, though it simmers out of reach, reserved for later, or locked away for good. Halfdan cannot tell yet. He cannot ask yet.

Kattegat’s docks swell with people when the horn sounds. Halfdan takes his usual place beside Bjorn. He looks out, thinking, and then says fondly, “Home,” because Kattegat has certainly offered more to Halfdan than Harald and Norway now ever can.

Bjorn squints, shakes his head. “Honestly, I don’t know anymore. Torvi… I don’t love her anymore. She doesn’t deserve it.” Sighing, he adds, “I feel bad about it.”

Halfdan stares. He beats down any idealism with all his might. But Halfdan will speak his mind, Bjorn’s confusion be damned. Watching Bjorn’s, Halfdan says, “What we deserve and what we get, Bjorn Ironside…” The way he speaks his name is so tender that Bjorn faces him, wide-eyed. “...is never in balance.” He pauses and considers his next words carefully. “It appears the gods are not much interested in fairness.”

It may be harsh, especially as he meets Bjorn’s eyes, confident the memories behind them are the same ones swimming in his mind in this moment, but it is what he needs to tell him. While Bjorn tries to conclude something from those words--many would call Halfdan wise, though he only calls himself honest--Halfdan slaps his shoulders, smiles, and walks off to give him room to breathe.

Celebratory cries reach them before their feet even hit the ground. Torvi and her children rush Bjorn. He scoops up his son. People hug Halfdan, clap his back, yet he only yearns for Bjorn’s touch, one he is not sure he will have again.

There are strange forces in Kattegat that Halfdan assumes are here to fight against his brother. He won’t pretend to be ignorant of Harald’s plotting. Though Kattegat’s residents are likely suspicious of his loyalties, they greet him kindly. It is a victor’s march to the hall. Halfdan wants to remind everyone that this trip was not made for glory. All the same, Halfdan smiles, embraces Ubbe like a son, and stays close to Bjorn while he can.

What he cannot do is quell the surge of envy that rises when Bjorn welcomes so intimately Princess Snaefrid. He cocks his head, though, amused as he thinks that is how he must have looked at Bjorn so many times. He regrets wasting so much time just looking.

A feast is prepared in their honor. Every Viking wants to hear of Ironside’s adventures to another world. Halfdan eats and drinks and listens. Later, Lagertha asks Halfdan what he saw that amazed him most. He answers truthfully: the desert, the miles and miles of sand, of absolutely nothing.

Lagertha smirks. “And what was the _second_ most amazing thing you saw?”

Halfdan glances away to Bjorn before he can stop himself. _Him_ . Bjorn is deep in conversation with Ubbe and doesn’t notice. Halfdan quickly flicks his eyes back to Lagertha to answer cheekily, “Everything _._ ”

Everyone laughs. Eventually the queen asks him for his sworn allegiance, and unsurprisingly distrusts it even when he gives it to her. She does not understand that his heart and sword lie with her son. This doesn’t concern him; Bjorn trusts him, which will satisfy her. Halfdan looks to Bjorn to confirm this, and he does, sitting beside him and stroking his thigh beneath the table before he offers Euphemius’ knife to Guthrum. Bjorn rubs their knees together when he speaks of the strange things that happen in other worlds. Halfdan stares at the corner bitterly.

Shortly into the feast, Torvi and Bjorn speak in hushed voices. Halfdan can see that Torvi’s calm is only a mask for a crushing sadness. Falling out of the affections of Bjorn Ironside hurts so much it must be some punishment from the gods, though Halfdan cannot ascertain what he or Torvi did to displease them. He follows her--and so does Ubbe, he sees when he glances over his shoulder--when she flees the feast. He finds her on Kattegat’s streets, weeping.

Halfdan admires this woman’s pride and resilience. “Torvi,” he calls softly.

She wipes at her tears and sits up as he approaches.

“It’s alright. I understand.”

“What do you understand?” she hisses. Bjorn hadn’t shown enough interest in Halfdan before to turn her thoughts where a woman of her intelligence and intuition should turn.

Hafldan inclines his head and gives her the simplest truth he can. “Loving him.”

Torvi hesitates, unnerved by his boldness. Then her gaze softens and she moves aside to offer him the space beside her. He takes it, fiddling with his hands until he knows how to proceed.

She speaks first. “I do not blame Bjorn.”

“No.” He laughs. “Blame me.”

“I do not blame you, either, as much as I do not blame the flowers for growing toward the sun.”

Halfdan raises his eyebrows. “Am I a flower now?”

Giggling, she answers, “Yes, but only with one petal,” which causes Halfdan to run his hands through his remaining hair and grin.

“You have more admirers,” he whispers. With that he leaves her.

Bjorn does not visit Halfdan’s bed that night. Halfdan is sure the Princess is with him now. He tries to not hate her, to think of her as Torvi would, but this attempt fails miserably. For the night, he hates her and Bjorn Ironside both. His loathing is brief; he dreams of Bjorn’s mouth, and he wakes with Bjorn staring at him from the tent’s opening. For awhile Halfdan thinks he is still dreaming, but Bjorn would already be touching him if he was. He blinks and rolls to his side. “What are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“You’re not very good at it.”

“Oh?” The corner of his mouth quirks upwards in the beginnings of a smile.

Halfdan nods, stretches, and opens his blanket. “Why don’t you come over here and let me do the thinking for us?”

Bjorn crawls on top of him, kissing him, holding him down. “You feel so different,” he murmurs, and then blushes like he hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

“Different from her.”

He sighs against Halfdan’s neck. “Yes.”

Halfdan slides his hand over Bjorn’s cheek. Bjorn leans into his touch before taking Halfdan’s thumb in his mouth. Halfdan pushes his other hand under his own waistband, pleased with the view. Bjorn’s hands soon follow, sliding off Halfdan’s pants and then his. They press against each other, naked, stealing warmth on this cool night.

“Tomorrow we will go to war.” Halfdan kisses Bjorn again. “I want you inside me.”

Bjorn shakes his head, amazed. “So you will fight beside me?” He searches Halfdan’s eyes and then kisses him as if that will better reveal his answer.

Halfdan supposes it does; there is no shame as he sighs into Bjorn’s mouth and bites at his lips and gasps, “Always, always.” He lifts his legs and digs his heels into Bjorn’s back. “Now,” he orders with a smirk, “give me something to remember you by.”

Afterwards, they trade lazy kisses while Halfdan traces runes onto Bjorn’s skin. Bjorn draws him closer and frames his face in his hands. He says, “I think my father may have loved Athelstan the way I love you.”

Halfdan raises his eyebrows and snorts. “The Christian?”

Bjorn laughs, shaking both of them. “Yes, the Christian.”

“And he died.” Halfdan does not mean to sound so cynical. He hides his face in Bjorn’s chest, frowning.

“Yes, Floki killed him, out of jealousy.” Bjorn’s voice hardens as he continues, “I will not let that happen to you.” He lifts Halfdan’s chin so their eyes meet. They save more talking for another time.

Bjorn’s departure stings less because they see one another so soon. Donned in armor, swords and shields at their sides, they talk of brothers and battle. Halfdan has almost lost track of the amount of times his allegiance is questioned. Nonetheless, Bjorn seems confident that he will return when the two sides exchange hostages.

Seeing Harald feels to Halfdan like grinding his heart between two stones. He grimaces, but he thinks this will be the worst of it, this first step, and he is right. Everything after, every word exchanged, is a barrier between him and Bjorn. He is not interested in the fame and fortune that Harald waves in front of him as if he is truly convinced that is a tantalizing offer. Harald forgets what he saw before Halfdan left with Bjorn, or decides it is not as important as their reconciliation. Halfdan also only has to speak with Ivar once to know no peace is possible. No matter how much Halfdan wishes for restored love between families, he believes Ivar is too insane to allow treaties.

Halfdan stands by Bjorn as Astrid stands by Harald when the two warring parties meet. Lagertha is too distracted by her lost love to notice, but Harald stiffens and snarls. His eyes ask, _Was he worth it?_

Halfdan’s grip on Bjorn’s chair tightens.

He cannot be the only one who is unsurprised by Ivar’s dramatic outburst during their toast. He is not shocked like Ubbe. He is not seething like Bjorn despite Harald’s cruel, loud laughter. Calmly, he waits, and draws his sword when the time comes.

They don’t fight now, but they will soon.

“You are sure?” Harald asks when they sheath their blades, standing close to each other in a poor parody of their old intimacy. The inquiry is an echo of the past, when Halfdan made his first decision to leave. This time it is so much easier to deny Harald.

Harald rears back and strikes Halfdan with all his might. Halfdan tastes blood but doesn’t retaliate. Harald’s threat is genuine; he sees it in his eyes, in the way his body goes rigid as it struggles not to break into a thousand pieces. Halfdan’s agony is the same. But he returns to Lagertha and to Bjorn, and regrets nothing.

“I would do it again,” Halfdan whispers after their victory, when the dead are collected and night falls. He and Bjorn lie in Bjorn’s tent, too exhausted to do anything but whisper and doze. Halfdan drifts in and out of consciousness until he stirs and is alone. Remembering Bjorn told him he wants to negotiate again, Halfdan rolls his eyes, because he thinks this is pointless considering the gods have already decided their fates. He goes back to sleep.

Bjorn returns only to tell him there will be no truce, and then he slips away to be with his new wife. It is morning, so Halfdan dresses and finds a secluded spot in the forest to sharpen his weapons. His strife manifests in an old folk song his mother taught him. It is habit, a song to recite before conflict, but underneath the comfort, it is a final, hidden plea. As his voice carries over the wind, Harald sings, too, with him but so many miles apart in body as well as mind, and Halfdan nearly chokes on his grief.

“I heard you singing with your brother,” Bjorn tells him later.

Halfdan will go to the field soon. This is their goodbye, and Bjorn is trying to waste it on Halfdan’s qualms. Halfdan groans. “Let me tell you something.”

He waits for Bjorn to meet his eyes before continuing. Words cannot possibly convey what Bjorn has given him, but he tries to tell him anyway. Perhaps he understands more when Halfdan declares he is ready for Valhalla; Bjorn gave him a life worth living and he cannot imagine much for himself now except more fighting. A lifetime of revenge awaits. And he doesn’t think he can live if Bjorn dies today. Halfdan would rather be the man to wait in Valhalla than to suffer on Midgard while Bjorn goes there without him. For Bjorn, Halfdan’s loss will ease with the coming years. Halfdan finds that unlikely in his own case. This is too much to say aloud, though, so he suffices with, “You have taught me…” He sighs, looks away, and then looks back. _Love,_ he concludes, only it comes out, “something.”

Bjorn reaches over and runs his fingers along Halfdan’s lips. “Thank you.”

Speechless, Halfdan can only grunt and let Bjorn’s touch soothe him. The world stops around them. Halfdan closes his eyes. He can hear himself breathe, can hear Bjorn crouch and come closer. He wraps his arms around Halfdan’s hips and pulls so they both kneel on the grass. No one is around--too busy with preparations and farewells--to witness Bjorn Ironside holding Halfdan the Black so tightly and so carefully all at once. Bjorn engulfs him like a wave during a storm. Halfdan’s chest heaves. They separate after what feels like ages but must have been only seconds.

Halfdan’s breath ghosts across Bjorn’s lips. “Now I can die.”

“No,” Bjorn offers instead. “Now you must live.”

Reeking of blood and sweat, the battlefield is full of corpses. Halfdan can almost see the Valkyries as they lead warriors to Valhalla. Halfdan cuts down men he grew up with. He can still imagine them with their wooden swords and axes. Many he expects to jump up with shrieking battle cries and go about chasing him rather than lay silent and staring into oblivion.

He blinks rapidly and stumbles backward. His muscles scream for an impossible reprieve. He turns and lunges so often that he feels nauseous, dizzy. Halfdan shuts his eyes, and when he opens them, he is standing in the desert. The sun beats down but does not burn his blood-soaked skin. Sand, usually so coarse, runs like water through his fingers. As he falls to his knees, Bjorn catches him. They are both beaten and bruised, although they smile like they feel no pain.

Halfdan vaults upward, barely avoiding a knife across his throat. He dodges another blow but is hit by a strong punch when he loses his footing over a fallen shieldmaiden. Shaking his head to clear it, Halfdan breathes in the forest yet only sees blue and gold.

Bjorn is here again. He hugs Halfdan from behind and rocks them back and forth to a song only he can hear. If this is death, Halfdan is happy here. Perhaps he has been fatally wounded and this is where he will wait for an invitation to Odin’s hall.

Screams rip through the illusion, jarring Halfdan back into the frenzy. Killing does not taste as sweet when he has tasted adventure, but he will fight for Kattegat, for Bjorn, and for the legacy of a place he loves.

He sees Harald and begins to panic. Confronting feels final today; Odin has wagered on only one of them to walk away. _You cut your hair,_ he wants to say as he braces himself.

“I do not want to kill you, brother.” Harald’s sword drips scarlet onto his back where it is slung across his shoulders. His hand twitches on its hilt.

Halfdan swings high and cuts his brother’s throat.

Harald falls, drowning in his own blood, and Halfdan rushes to him. They are so close, pressed cheek-to-cheek, as Harald dies. Part of Halfdan perishes with Harald. Halfdan holds him in his arms and grits his teeth. This loss he feels deep in the marrow of his bones, bolting through as if Thor weeps, as well. The gods certainly know the bitterness of wars between brothers.

Halfdan gives himself a few more moments with Harald before he can move. Then, he runs. He runs back to the encampment, slicing down countless others as he goes, all of life a blur. There is a ceaseless knife in his stomach that guts him until he has no choice but to stop and retch into the dirt. This rest is cruelest of all, of course, because a Kattegat warrior seizes his shirtfront and yells, “We have lost! Retreat!”

They stagger the rest of the way on unsteady feet. Halfdan recognizes Bjorn in the crowd and uses the last of his strength to walk to his side. Simply falling in step beside him alleviates the jumbled noise in his head. It all fades as Bjorn opens his arm and lets Halfdan fall into that space.

“Princess Snaefrid is dead.”

“So is Harald. I killed him.”

They both nod, overwhelmed. Lagertha’s kingdom crumbles. _Lagertha_ crumbles, and Halfdan can see how this breaks Bjorn. His voice his hollow as he tells his people to gather their things and to hurry, for Ivar the Boneless will waste no time in gloating and collecting his reward.

Bjorn gently slides his mother into his arms. Around him, servants ask their queen what she needs to take with her, yet she stares vacantly. Bjorn answers instead.

Once everyone is laden with far too heavy bags, they gather onto Bjorn’s remaining ships. It cannot carry all of Kattegat’s people. Bjorn winces when the arguing begins. He sets Lagertha on a pile of furs and only returns when there is peace among those who remain onshore.

Halfdan rests his hand on Bjorn’s shoulder. Bjorn holds it there.

“We lived today to fight again when our time comes. All hope isn’t lost, Bjorn.”

Bjorn leans into Halfdan as if he might collapse without him. “Ivar may have more boats ready to block us. He will not stop until my mother is dead.”

“You will keep her safe.”

“How can you be sure?”

Halfdan looks out to the endless water, to all its potential, and thinks for a moment that everything will be alright.

But this, he considers, is a lie.

**Author's Note:**

> If you ever feel so inclined, I have started a ko-fi should anyone wish to support me. Here is the link! https://ko-fi.com/U7U0GEE2


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